


Scars

by somebodyslight



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Everything Hurts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodyslight/pseuds/somebodyslight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thorns aren't the only thing leaving marks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to flecksofpoppy for encouraging me to put this idea into words and tolerating my need for constant reassurance throughout the entire process. I'm not sure I would have gotten back into writing so soon without her pushing and cheering me along, but I'm glad.

“What’s wrong?”

Alan freezes as he’s jarred from his thoughts with these two words. Words he’s sick of. Words he hears much too often from far too many people. When there isn’t something wrong, it makes him wonder if there should be, and when there is, it sends him into panic.

Eric sets his pen down and rolls his chair across the room from his desk to Alan’s.

“Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention. That’s the third time in ten minutes. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alan says a little too quickly as he catches himself tugging his shirtsleeves down again. _Oh. Make that four times._ He tries to make up for it with a weak smile. “Just feeling a bit cold.”

Eric takes Alan’s wrist as he goes to fold his hands in his lap and the startled look in Alan’s eyes when he reacts to this gesture is more telling than his obvious, ineffective attempt at a front.

Sometimes one word is worse than two, and when Eric says his name, it cuts through him. There is no anger, no implication that his name should be followed by “What the bloody hell were you thinking?” or “Why would you let the damn thing in?” as it has been in the past. Only hurt, confusion, concern.

Alan looks away as the cuff is carefully unbuttoned and rolled up, revealing them. The delicate, winding, pale scars that the Thorns have etched upon his forearm: scars that have never bled, that never require healing but also never fade, that are hardly noticeable until the light hits them just so. And the thick red lines that have been carved over them: intentional, made precisely and deeply and with control. They could not have been left by any human-made tool; such injuries would mend themselves much more cleanly and within a day or two for a Reaper, even one with a compromised healing capacity. No, the severity of these indicated they were created by a scythe blade and ranged in age from a few weeks to possibly only hours old.

Alan flinches ever so slightly when the soft touch of calloused fingertips traces along these ugly new marks, slowly sweeping over raised seams and rough edges, wordlessly studying what’s been done and when and how and why.

“Why?”

Yes, one word can definitely be far worse than two.

“I… I thought that maybe-”

“What good could you possibly think this would do?”

Alan closes his eyes shut tightly in an attempt to hold back tears. The original question was easier to answer. He would have much preferred it to trying to explain.

“I just wanted to get it out. So I tried. I tried over and over and over and I knew it would never work, but I kept-” He’s shaking now, hands balled into fists, trying to keep himself together and failing and hating that now, like always, he cannot be fully in control of even his own body.

Any chance he has at regaining composure is lost when Alan feels a feather-light kiss on his wrist.

Eric’s breath is warm against his cool skin, but a bit too steady, so controlled it seems almost painful. The touch of his lips as he passes over each scar then lingers on Alan’s pulse point is soft. But Alan swears he feels a quiver before Eric pulls away. And though Eric is perfectly silent, Alan is sure it’s a tear that he feels roll down and off his inner elbow.

Alan is not so resolute. And when Eric pulls him into his arms, he allows himself to give in to everything he’s been trying so hard to hold back, breaking down completely.

The tears spill over and his stomach knots and his heart aches so badly the only coherent thought in his mind is that he hopes it isn’t the beginning of an attack because that’s the last thing he needs in this moment. So he does his best to focus entirely on calming himself and shutting out everything around him.

He doesn’t miss, however, the shaky breath Eric takes before finally, hesitantly and quietly speaking.

“Alan... I hate seeing you hurting like this. I don't care what the reason was, or why you kept doing it, just... please don’t do this to yourself anymore, alright?”

Alan only nods against his shoulder as Eric presses a soft kiss to his hair and slides the sleeve back down, refastening it around his wrist.

****

****\- - -** **

****

Eric sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the scythe laying across his lap for what feels like hours.

_Anything to understand._

He eases the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows and turns the saw blade-upright, holding it steady with one gloved hand as he tries to determine exactly how to position the other: first touching only his wrist to the cool metal, then moving his arm forward, rotating it, pulling it back again, and finally angling the blade and resting his entire forearm against it.

_Anything to share his pain._

He steels himself and presses down, dragging his arm along the serrated edge and tearing it open. The scythe falls to the floor, but he can’t hear it over the throbbing ache resonating through his entire body. Blood wells and spills and, just as quickly, the flow subsides as his body begins repairing itself.

Then he sees the first wisp of his own cinematic record drifting upward.

He watches as he meets him for the first time. Alan Humphries: newly-graduated from the Academy, a triple-A student in all areas, the most promising addition to the London branch in decades. A stiff handshake, a nervous laugh. He never caught that look Alan gave him. He’d almost forgotten that Alan had ever worn that standard-issue black silk tie.

Eric covers the wound to stop the record from unraveling any further. That’s more than enough. How many times had Alan done this? What moments in his life had he forced himself to relive?

The record recoils as his skin knits itself back together, leaving him with a scar to match Alan’s, which he promptly pulls his sleeve back down over. He picks up his scythe and wipes the blood on his trousers, then gets up and slips back into his coat before heading out.

It’ll be a long night in the human realm.

 


End file.
